Ficlet: Hours [Sam/Dean, NC-17]
Author: rei_c
Title: Hours
Pairings: Sam/Dean, mentions of Sam/OMC
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2850
Part of the 5D5D 'verse, following the events of Otherside, occurring after the epilogue. It will not make sense without having first read Otherside.
"We can stop," Sam says.
It startles Dean, has him touching the brake pedal for a second before the words digest more than just stop, before he realises that it's not a request, but a suggestion. He has no idea what Sam's talking about.
John's in the truck, driving in front of them, straight line down the middle of the lane, no deviations to either side, except for six miles back, when the Buick they'd been following turned off the little two-lane state highway. Their father had swung around, unwilling to slow down, clear road ahead of them, no one coming the other way. Dean sees his father glancing back at them every so often, as if he can’t quite believe both of his sons are still there, behind him.
Dean looks over at Sam, who's sitting in the passenger seat with one leg propped up, cheek pressed against his knee, eyes closed. He doesn't know how Sam does it, because that has to be uncomfortable as hell, but Sam's regained his cat-like and lithe flexibility, limber in ways that Dean can't dream of without waking up sticky and hard. They haven't fucked in thirty hours. Sam looks like this doesn’t bother him; Dean's ready to explode.
"Stop what?" he asks, reaching over, poking Sam in the side, fingers skittering over warm skin before moving back to the steering wheel. They can't do anything, not with John's rear-view mirror pointed in their direction, but Dean can't stop the little touches, as if Sam's due north and he's a magnet searching for home.
Sam sighs, bends himself a little smaller, and says, "Having sex. With Dad around, it's."
Dean cuts him off, says, "Sam," because he can't get the image of Sam in that motel three states away, close to death and pale, washed-out as if he'd been dead for weeks, out of his head. "I'm not gonna let you kill yourself just so Dad doesn't figure out we're fucking. And, for the record? It's not like he ever caught us before, and we have experience hiding it now. We'll be fine. I don’t want to hear you bring it up again."
Sam doesn't say anything.
--
They stop for food at a diner just outside of Huntsville. Dean slides into the booth first, lets Sam have the aisle, and John watches, eyebrows raised. Dean knows why, knows that neither of them would've ever let Sam sit on the outside before, just in case, but Sam stretches out his legs, miles and miles of them that Dean can almost taste, the sweat behind his knees, the dry curve of his ankles, the muscle of his calves, and Dean sees his father relax.
Dean knows it has more to do with Sam wanting the option to move, to leave, and he hates it, the thought that Sam might run from him again, decide that his independence is more important than living, but he also knows that forcing the issue isn’t something he should do, not yet, so he won’t. Still, Sam's taller now than he was then, needs more space, and if that’s what John thinks this is all about, Dean will be grateful for it.
John asks, "How much more'd you grow?" He nods at Sam’s legs, the tight-fitting jeans, the boots giving off an impression of money, of arrogance and the ability to back it up, but doesn’t ask anything else, just sits there and waits for an answer.
It's the first thing John's said to Sam outside of the room where they met up, outside of discussing the new demon-hunt. Dean doesn't so much hold his breath as hear his heart stop beating.
"Couple inches," Sam finally says, meeting his father’s eyes then looking down, away, agile fingers fiddling with a loose thread at the end of his long-sleeved shirt. "Got skinnier; that's what makes me look taller."
"How'd that happen?" John asks, watching Sam with dark, unreadable eyes, like he's still not sure if it's really Sam sitting with them, like he hasn't decided if Sam's safe or all right, remained untouched by the demon, like he’s afraid to hope. "College food that bad these days?"
Sam looks at his father, the same dark eyes, the same wary expression, and Dean's breath catches, because he's never realised before just how much his father and brother look like each other when they're focused, intent, nervous.
"Guess my appetite slowed down," Sam finally says. Dean bites back a grimace.
John nods, and the waitress swings 'round, takes their order, promises them drinks in a second and food in a few minutes. After she's gone, John leans forward, elbows on the table, and asks, "You're all right?"
Dean looks between his father and brother; he doesn't understand the conversation flicking back and forth between them, unspoken, doesn't know what they were really talking about before this. Thanks to what he's learned about Sam, he knows that John's asking about the demon, about whatever he thinks Sam is, just like he knows Sam's going to lie.
"I will be," Sam says.
It's more hopeful truth than Dean expected. Dean breathes, feels his heart start to beat again, pick up on the rhythm it lost.
"Sam," John says.
Sam cuts him off, smiles a little half-smile and shakes his head, bangs falling into eyes looking down at the table. "I know, Dad," he says, and underneath the table, one hand reaches out and squeezes Dean's thigh, holds on tight. “It’s just going to take some time.”
--
Sam's holding takeout boxes on his lap, and Dean's following his father's truck to a motel. It's been thirty two hours since he was buried inside of Sam, which he feels is about thirty one and one-half hours too long. Thirty two hours of waiting, of being close enough to touch his brother but not allowed to, thirty two hours of Sam being quiet and closed off. Dean wonders what Sam's been thinking about, wonders how long it would take to fuck the thoughts away, and he realises, maybe Sam was right. This isn’t the rune, the connection between them-this is all him, like he was before Sam left. All he can think about is his brother; either he’s going to mess up in front of their father soon, or he’s going to be a liability on a hunt.
That makes him think about hunting, what it’s going to be like now, with Sam more creature than human, unnatural reflexes, that strange, otherworldly grace, the entire lack of fear. Dean’s blood runs cold, remembering the way Sam stood in front of Connor and let the man whip his back to shreds, the way Sam knelt in front of Síla-na-Gig and just watched her. There won’t be any way to hide that from John, no way in hell he’s not going to notice anything.
“Dad’ll know,” he says, mouth dry. Sam doesn’t look at him. “When we start hunting, he’ll guess. Jesus.”
“He already knows I’m different,” Sam says, two miles down the road. “He knows I heal quick, and he knows I have the charm. He’s counted on it before; I don’t see that this will be anything different. Anything else he sees, he’ll attribute to the demon dying and he’ll watch, maybe ask someday, but he put Holy Water in my drink when we met up with him, and he’s said the name of God in my hearing more than once. Nothing happened.”
Dean thinks back to the room above Frankie’s bar, how whip-crack sharp Sam’s tone was, thinks back to Connor’s house and the pure sex-drenched sound of his brother’s voice, thinks back to Indianapolis and the way Sam talked as if he was ready to die. For the past thirty two hours, Sam’s tone has been quiet, thoughtful, as if he’s plotting out a game of chess against someone Dean doesn’t know. Dean’s not sure he likes it any more than the tone he heard at that rotten motel in Indiana.
“You’re not,” he starts to say, then stops, because he doesn’t know how to put into words what he’s feeling, apart from crashing into a litany of ‘mine’s and ‘fucknownownow’s.
Sam stays quiet, curls up in his seat, back to the window, putting the takeout boxes on the floor, facing Dean. Dean looks over once, wishes he hadn’t, because Sam’s framed by the sun, hair loose and lazy in curls, cheekbones highlighted and shadowed, eyes focused, lips begging to be kissed. His brother looks fey, more so than ever before, and Dean can see Sam’s lip start to curl into a smile out of his peripheral vision. It sends chills down his spine, and the blood rushing to his dick.
“You hated it,” Sam says, and Dean can almost hear the change in his voice from one word to the next. “When you called me, and the sound of my voice and the tug of the rune made you come. But you liked it, too, didn’t you, Dean?”
Just like that, as if he hadn’t been before, he’s hard as a rock, fingers grasped tight on the steering wheel, paying too much attention to their father’s truck in front of them. Their father. “Sam, Dad’ll.”
“Dad’s in another car,” Sam says, slowly, sinuously, words winding through Dean’s ears and down his spinal column, flooding into every nerve ending. “He won’t know. That get you hard, Dean? Fooling Dad again, fucking right under his nose?”
Dean groans, because, yes, it does, always has. One hand, almost without his permission, slides down the steering wheel to press against his cock, and he can’t decide if he should be angry or not; Sam’s right there, it’s been thirty two hours, and he wants to be inside Sam, not getting off on hearing his voice. He groans again, when Sam does something to the rune binding them and it makes his blood boil, hot and needy.
“I’m hungry, Dean,” Sam murmurs, licking his lips. “You said you’d feed me, and now I want to eat.”
Dean’s hand over his crotch tightens, then moves, pulling out the cell phone from his pocket. He can see the motel lights in the near distance, no more than three miles away, and the thought of fucking Sam into a mattress is appealing, but their father’s truck is still in front of them.
Dean calls John, tells him unceremoniously that he thought they saw something in the treeline a mile back, that they’ll go check it out while John gets them rooms, and doesn’t even wait for John to answer before he ends the call and turns the Impala around. He watches the mirror for a minute, but the truck keeps going towards the motel, and when it turns into the parking lot, Dean pulls the Impala over, turns it off, and reaches out for Sam.
His fingers dig into Sam’s shirt, Sam’s shoulders, and pull him close, lips pressed to lips. He devours Sam’s mouth, urged on by the noises Sam’s making, pleased and hungry and demanding, and then leans back, spreads his legs and pushes Sam’s head down.
Sam undoes Dean’s jeans with the same urgency Dean feels circling through him, latches on to Dean’s cock with a satisfied moan, and starts to suck. Dean arches up into Sam’s mouth, one hand curling around Sam’s skull and holding him steady, and as Sam’s hands flutter along Dean’s hips, tracing out patterns or runes, Dean’s not sure and doesn’t care, he starts to fuck Sam’s mouth.
It’s slow, and Sam growls, wanting more, the vibrations sending shudders of pleasure through Dean’s entire body. Lazy fucking, this, and Dean leans his head back, closing his eyes, because Sam’s better at this than anyone has a right to be, even better than Dean remembers, before Stanford or after.
Sam’s making little kittenish noises every time Dean’s cock slips down his throat, mewing and soft, and while Dean loves it, it’s been thirty two hours, and he wants Sam begging, wants to hear his brother torn apart. On the next out-stroke, he pulls out entirely, and Sam struggles against the hand in his hair, tries to follow, and when Dean won’t let him, Sam looks up at him. His eyes are luminous, bright green, and half-lidded, his lips plump and shiny, an invitation to sin that Dean has no intention of ignoring.
“Am I doing something wrong, Dean?” he asks, voice raw but with a knowing drawl that nearly has Dean driving his dick back into Sam’s mouth.
He holds on to a thin shred of sanity, twists the rune somehow, and as Sam’s arching, eyes closed and mouth open, he says, “Gonna fuck you,” half-shocked his words came out as more than incomprehensible sounds. “Fuck you so hard, wanna hear you beg, Sam.”
Sam looks at him, face flushed, and smiles slowly, showing teeth. Faster than Dean can see, he’s moved, draped all over Dean, grinding down against Dean’s cock, hands rubbing at Dean’s nipples, lips and teeth and tongue all over Dean’s neck, face. “Fuck me, Dean,” he whispers into one ear, then, into the other ear, “Wanna feel it for days, please,” then, into Dean’s mouth, “Please, please, Dean, fuck me now, want you inside me, please.”
Dean opens his door with one hand, the other fumbling with Sam’s jeans, and slides out, jeans and underwear falling down to his ankles. Dean pulls at Sam’s feet, until Sam’s lying down on the bench seat, legs hanging out the car, staring up at Dean and fisting his dick, slow, a twisting tug at the end of every stroke.
“Always did like fucking me in the car,” Sam says, reaching up with his other hand to trace the curve of the steering wheel as if it’s flesh, turning his face and mouthing the leather seat.
Dean can’t be blamed for the noise that comes out of his throat at that, and in another handful of too-long seconds, Sam’s on his stomach, ass bared to Dean, who smacks it once, twice, again, again, watching as the skin turns red. He looks up, sees Sam driving his dick into the leather, sees Sam licking the seat, and pushes two dry fingers into Sam without hesitation, nothing gentle about the act. Sam arches, whines, pushes back, and Dean smacks him again, fingers moving in and out, stretching Sam.
“C’mon, Dean, fuck me,” Sam pants, and then, when Dean adds a third finger, Sam hisses, breathes, “Yeah, c’mon, more, like that,” on an exhale. “Stop fucking around and fucking fuck me.”
Dean lines up, pushes his way in, and when Sam tenses, Dean tears his nails down Sam’s back, drawing blood.
--
They don’t talk any more; Dean hasn’t wasted any time setting a rhythm and he’s been reduced to grunts as he fucks in hard and deep, groans as Sam clenches around him, moves his hips, and the words coming out of Sam’s mouth don’t qualify as conversation, not one-word pleas for more, for deeper, for harder. Thirty two hours, and Sam’s finally as desperate as Dean; when they come, it feels like it’s been building for each nanosecond of those hours.
Dean spills inside of Sam first, then pulls out, slides his fingers back in and fucks Sam with four, slick in his own come, until Sam’s shuddering and trying to catch his breath. Dean takes his fingers out, sucks at them, and once they’re clean, he bends down, kisses the small of Sam’s back and licks at the nearly-healed nail marks on Sam’s back, before holding up his pants enough to grab an already-dirty t-shirt from the back seat.
He wipes his dick off, then pulls up his underwear and jeans, then crouches down and cleans what he can from Sam’s ass, only now realising that he hasn’t used a condom. Fear flashes through him so fast he can almost taste it, fuck, Sam was a heroin-addict whore, and Sam says, head pillowed against the leather, “M’clean, Dean. Miracle, but there it is. Heal fast, think that might have something to do with it.”
“I had gonorrhoea once,” Dean says. “And chlamydia, but it’s been a while since either of them. We’ll get tested next chance we get. You’re going to lick the seat clean.”
The apparent non sequitur doesn’t faze Sam, who merely crawls out of the car, re-dresses under Dean’s eye, and then bends down, uses small, cat-like licks, to clean every spot of his come off of the leather.
Dean gets hard again, just watching it. It’s been three minutes since he’s been inside of Sam, and already he wants more. “We could lay off and you wouldn’t die?” he asks.
Sam looks over his shoulder, licks his lips, and says, eyes shadowed but glinting, “Yes.”
After Dean’s pushed Sam to his knees in the gravel and come in Sam’s mouth, he says, “Tell me how.”
Title: Hours
Pairings: Sam/Dean, mentions of Sam/OMC
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2850
Part of the 5D5D 'verse, following the events of Otherside, occurring after the epilogue. It will not make sense without having first read Otherside.
"We can stop," Sam says.
It startles Dean, has him touching the brake pedal for a second before the words digest more than just stop, before he realises that it's not a request, but a suggestion. He has no idea what Sam's talking about.
John's in the truck, driving in front of them, straight line down the middle of the lane, no deviations to either side, except for six miles back, when the Buick they'd been following turned off the little two-lane state highway. Their father had swung around, unwilling to slow down, clear road ahead of them, no one coming the other way. Dean sees his father glancing back at them every so often, as if he can’t quite believe both of his sons are still there, behind him.
Dean looks over at Sam, who's sitting in the passenger seat with one leg propped up, cheek pressed against his knee, eyes closed. He doesn't know how Sam does it, because that has to be uncomfortable as hell, but Sam's regained his cat-like and lithe flexibility, limber in ways that Dean can't dream of without waking up sticky and hard. They haven't fucked in thirty hours. Sam looks like this doesn’t bother him; Dean's ready to explode.
"Stop what?" he asks, reaching over, poking Sam in the side, fingers skittering over warm skin before moving back to the steering wheel. They can't do anything, not with John's rear-view mirror pointed in their direction, but Dean can't stop the little touches, as if Sam's due north and he's a magnet searching for home.
Sam sighs, bends himself a little smaller, and says, "Having sex. With Dad around, it's."
Dean cuts him off, says, "Sam," because he can't get the image of Sam in that motel three states away, close to death and pale, washed-out as if he'd been dead for weeks, out of his head. "I'm not gonna let you kill yourself just so Dad doesn't figure out we're fucking. And, for the record? It's not like he ever caught us before, and we have experience hiding it now. We'll be fine. I don’t want to hear you bring it up again."
Sam doesn't say anything.
--
They stop for food at a diner just outside of Huntsville. Dean slides into the booth first, lets Sam have the aisle, and John watches, eyebrows raised. Dean knows why, knows that neither of them would've ever let Sam sit on the outside before, just in case, but Sam stretches out his legs, miles and miles of them that Dean can almost taste, the sweat behind his knees, the dry curve of his ankles, the muscle of his calves, and Dean sees his father relax.
Dean knows it has more to do with Sam wanting the option to move, to leave, and he hates it, the thought that Sam might run from him again, decide that his independence is more important than living, but he also knows that forcing the issue isn’t something he should do, not yet, so he won’t. Still, Sam's taller now than he was then, needs more space, and if that’s what John thinks this is all about, Dean will be grateful for it.
John asks, "How much more'd you grow?" He nods at Sam’s legs, the tight-fitting jeans, the boots giving off an impression of money, of arrogance and the ability to back it up, but doesn’t ask anything else, just sits there and waits for an answer.
It's the first thing John's said to Sam outside of the room where they met up, outside of discussing the new demon-hunt. Dean doesn't so much hold his breath as hear his heart stop beating.
"Couple inches," Sam finally says, meeting his father’s eyes then looking down, away, agile fingers fiddling with a loose thread at the end of his long-sleeved shirt. "Got skinnier; that's what makes me look taller."
"How'd that happen?" John asks, watching Sam with dark, unreadable eyes, like he's still not sure if it's really Sam sitting with them, like he hasn't decided if Sam's safe or all right, remained untouched by the demon, like he’s afraid to hope. "College food that bad these days?"
Sam looks at his father, the same dark eyes, the same wary expression, and Dean's breath catches, because he's never realised before just how much his father and brother look like each other when they're focused, intent, nervous.
"Guess my appetite slowed down," Sam finally says. Dean bites back a grimace.
John nods, and the waitress swings 'round, takes their order, promises them drinks in a second and food in a few minutes. After she's gone, John leans forward, elbows on the table, and asks, "You're all right?"
Dean looks between his father and brother; he doesn't understand the conversation flicking back and forth between them, unspoken, doesn't know what they were really talking about before this. Thanks to what he's learned about Sam, he knows that John's asking about the demon, about whatever he thinks Sam is, just like he knows Sam's going to lie.
"I will be," Sam says.
It's more hopeful truth than Dean expected. Dean breathes, feels his heart start to beat again, pick up on the rhythm it lost.
"Sam," John says.
Sam cuts him off, smiles a little half-smile and shakes his head, bangs falling into eyes looking down at the table. "I know, Dad," he says, and underneath the table, one hand reaches out and squeezes Dean's thigh, holds on tight. “It’s just going to take some time.”
--
Sam's holding takeout boxes on his lap, and Dean's following his father's truck to a motel. It's been thirty two hours since he was buried inside of Sam, which he feels is about thirty one and one-half hours too long. Thirty two hours of waiting, of being close enough to touch his brother but not allowed to, thirty two hours of Sam being quiet and closed off. Dean wonders what Sam's been thinking about, wonders how long it would take to fuck the thoughts away, and he realises, maybe Sam was right. This isn’t the rune, the connection between them-this is all him, like he was before Sam left. All he can think about is his brother; either he’s going to mess up in front of their father soon, or he’s going to be a liability on a hunt.
That makes him think about hunting, what it’s going to be like now, with Sam more creature than human, unnatural reflexes, that strange, otherworldly grace, the entire lack of fear. Dean’s blood runs cold, remembering the way Sam stood in front of Connor and let the man whip his back to shreds, the way Sam knelt in front of Síla-na-Gig and just watched her. There won’t be any way to hide that from John, no way in hell he’s not going to notice anything.
“Dad’ll know,” he says, mouth dry. Sam doesn’t look at him. “When we start hunting, he’ll guess. Jesus.”
“He already knows I’m different,” Sam says, two miles down the road. “He knows I heal quick, and he knows I have the charm. He’s counted on it before; I don’t see that this will be anything different. Anything else he sees, he’ll attribute to the demon dying and he’ll watch, maybe ask someday, but he put Holy Water in my drink when we met up with him, and he’s said the name of God in my hearing more than once. Nothing happened.”
Dean thinks back to the room above Frankie’s bar, how whip-crack sharp Sam’s tone was, thinks back to Connor’s house and the pure sex-drenched sound of his brother’s voice, thinks back to Indianapolis and the way Sam talked as if he was ready to die. For the past thirty two hours, Sam’s tone has been quiet, thoughtful, as if he’s plotting out a game of chess against someone Dean doesn’t know. Dean’s not sure he likes it any more than the tone he heard at that rotten motel in Indiana.
“You’re not,” he starts to say, then stops, because he doesn’t know how to put into words what he’s feeling, apart from crashing into a litany of ‘mine’s and ‘fucknownownow’s.
Sam stays quiet, curls up in his seat, back to the window, putting the takeout boxes on the floor, facing Dean. Dean looks over once, wishes he hadn’t, because Sam’s framed by the sun, hair loose and lazy in curls, cheekbones highlighted and shadowed, eyes focused, lips begging to be kissed. His brother looks fey, more so than ever before, and Dean can see Sam’s lip start to curl into a smile out of his peripheral vision. It sends chills down his spine, and the blood rushing to his dick.
“You hated it,” Sam says, and Dean can almost hear the change in his voice from one word to the next. “When you called me, and the sound of my voice and the tug of the rune made you come. But you liked it, too, didn’t you, Dean?”
Just like that, as if he hadn’t been before, he’s hard as a rock, fingers grasped tight on the steering wheel, paying too much attention to their father’s truck in front of them. Their father. “Sam, Dad’ll.”
“Dad’s in another car,” Sam says, slowly, sinuously, words winding through Dean’s ears and down his spinal column, flooding into every nerve ending. “He won’t know. That get you hard, Dean? Fooling Dad again, fucking right under his nose?”
Dean groans, because, yes, it does, always has. One hand, almost without his permission, slides down the steering wheel to press against his cock, and he can’t decide if he should be angry or not; Sam’s right there, it’s been thirty two hours, and he wants to be inside Sam, not getting off on hearing his voice. He groans again, when Sam does something to the rune binding them and it makes his blood boil, hot and needy.
“I’m hungry, Dean,” Sam murmurs, licking his lips. “You said you’d feed me, and now I want to eat.”
Dean’s hand over his crotch tightens, then moves, pulling out the cell phone from his pocket. He can see the motel lights in the near distance, no more than three miles away, and the thought of fucking Sam into a mattress is appealing, but their father’s truck is still in front of them.
Dean calls John, tells him unceremoniously that he thought they saw something in the treeline a mile back, that they’ll go check it out while John gets them rooms, and doesn’t even wait for John to answer before he ends the call and turns the Impala around. He watches the mirror for a minute, but the truck keeps going towards the motel, and when it turns into the parking lot, Dean pulls the Impala over, turns it off, and reaches out for Sam.
His fingers dig into Sam’s shirt, Sam’s shoulders, and pull him close, lips pressed to lips. He devours Sam’s mouth, urged on by the noises Sam’s making, pleased and hungry and demanding, and then leans back, spreads his legs and pushes Sam’s head down.
Sam undoes Dean’s jeans with the same urgency Dean feels circling through him, latches on to Dean’s cock with a satisfied moan, and starts to suck. Dean arches up into Sam’s mouth, one hand curling around Sam’s skull and holding him steady, and as Sam’s hands flutter along Dean’s hips, tracing out patterns or runes, Dean’s not sure and doesn’t care, he starts to fuck Sam’s mouth.
It’s slow, and Sam growls, wanting more, the vibrations sending shudders of pleasure through Dean’s entire body. Lazy fucking, this, and Dean leans his head back, closing his eyes, because Sam’s better at this than anyone has a right to be, even better than Dean remembers, before Stanford or after.
Sam’s making little kittenish noises every time Dean’s cock slips down his throat, mewing and soft, and while Dean loves it, it’s been thirty two hours, and he wants Sam begging, wants to hear his brother torn apart. On the next out-stroke, he pulls out entirely, and Sam struggles against the hand in his hair, tries to follow, and when Dean won’t let him, Sam looks up at him. His eyes are luminous, bright green, and half-lidded, his lips plump and shiny, an invitation to sin that Dean has no intention of ignoring.
“Am I doing something wrong, Dean?” he asks, voice raw but with a knowing drawl that nearly has Dean driving his dick back into Sam’s mouth.
He holds on to a thin shred of sanity, twists the rune somehow, and as Sam’s arching, eyes closed and mouth open, he says, “Gonna fuck you,” half-shocked his words came out as more than incomprehensible sounds. “Fuck you so hard, wanna hear you beg, Sam.”
Sam looks at him, face flushed, and smiles slowly, showing teeth. Faster than Dean can see, he’s moved, draped all over Dean, grinding down against Dean’s cock, hands rubbing at Dean’s nipples, lips and teeth and tongue all over Dean’s neck, face. “Fuck me, Dean,” he whispers into one ear, then, into the other ear, “Wanna feel it for days, please,” then, into Dean’s mouth, “Please, please, Dean, fuck me now, want you inside me, please.”
Dean opens his door with one hand, the other fumbling with Sam’s jeans, and slides out, jeans and underwear falling down to his ankles. Dean pulls at Sam’s feet, until Sam’s lying down on the bench seat, legs hanging out the car, staring up at Dean and fisting his dick, slow, a twisting tug at the end of every stroke.
“Always did like fucking me in the car,” Sam says, reaching up with his other hand to trace the curve of the steering wheel as if it’s flesh, turning his face and mouthing the leather seat.
Dean can’t be blamed for the noise that comes out of his throat at that, and in another handful of too-long seconds, Sam’s on his stomach, ass bared to Dean, who smacks it once, twice, again, again, watching as the skin turns red. He looks up, sees Sam driving his dick into the leather, sees Sam licking the seat, and pushes two dry fingers into Sam without hesitation, nothing gentle about the act. Sam arches, whines, pushes back, and Dean smacks him again, fingers moving in and out, stretching Sam.
“C’mon, Dean, fuck me,” Sam pants, and then, when Dean adds a third finger, Sam hisses, breathes, “Yeah, c’mon, more, like that,” on an exhale. “Stop fucking around and fucking fuck me.”
Dean lines up, pushes his way in, and when Sam tenses, Dean tears his nails down Sam’s back, drawing blood.
--
They don’t talk any more; Dean hasn’t wasted any time setting a rhythm and he’s been reduced to grunts as he fucks in hard and deep, groans as Sam clenches around him, moves his hips, and the words coming out of Sam’s mouth don’t qualify as conversation, not one-word pleas for more, for deeper, for harder. Thirty two hours, and Sam’s finally as desperate as Dean; when they come, it feels like it’s been building for each nanosecond of those hours.
Dean spills inside of Sam first, then pulls out, slides his fingers back in and fucks Sam with four, slick in his own come, until Sam’s shuddering and trying to catch his breath. Dean takes his fingers out, sucks at them, and once they’re clean, he bends down, kisses the small of Sam’s back and licks at the nearly-healed nail marks on Sam’s back, before holding up his pants enough to grab an already-dirty t-shirt from the back seat.
He wipes his dick off, then pulls up his underwear and jeans, then crouches down and cleans what he can from Sam’s ass, only now realising that he hasn’t used a condom. Fear flashes through him so fast he can almost taste it, fuck, Sam was a heroin-addict whore, and Sam says, head pillowed against the leather, “M’clean, Dean. Miracle, but there it is. Heal fast, think that might have something to do with it.”
“I had gonorrhoea once,” Dean says. “And chlamydia, but it’s been a while since either of them. We’ll get tested next chance we get. You’re going to lick the seat clean.”
The apparent non sequitur doesn’t faze Sam, who merely crawls out of the car, re-dresses under Dean’s eye, and then bends down, uses small, cat-like licks, to clean every spot of his come off of the leather.
Dean gets hard again, just watching it. It’s been three minutes since he’s been inside of Sam, and already he wants more. “We could lay off and you wouldn’t die?” he asks.
Sam looks over his shoulder, licks his lips, and says, eyes shadowed but glinting, “Yes.”
After Dean’s pushed Sam to his knees in the gravel and come in Sam’s mouth, he says, “Tell me how.”